


The Sapphire Heiress

by LibKat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Disguised Heroine, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-05-18 09:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14850308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibKat/pseuds/LibKat
Summary: Seeking his fortune in Queen Victaria’s capital has proven difficult for Mr. Duncan Morne.  Just as he is on the brink of homelessness, he finds a place in The Rose Garden, an elegant rooming house run by former actress Olenna Redwyne.  At The Rose Garden, Duncan will find friendship, counsel, and assistance with his difficulties.  But how is a young man to gain notice in a city that is obsessed with the mysterious disappearance of the Sapphire Heiress?





	1. These New Shades

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones and these characters belong to a whole bunch of people who are not me. I will return them undamaged when I am finished playing with them. (I’m old and I still do disclaimers. I understand that the young and au courant find them stodgy. Those damn kids need to get off my lawn.)
> 
> The original idea for this fic was inspired by Laura Lee Gurkhe’s Girl Bachelor series. It has changed since then, but I still wanted to acknowledge it.
> 
> This is a ca.1890s Victorian England version of Westeros. Laws and customs are going to mirror that era (or what I’ve gleaned from reading history and historical novels). Titles of nobility and inheritance will be modeled on England as well, but have grown out of the noble Houses from ASOIAF.
> 
> In trying to work through some writer’s block, I’ve now got FOUR multi chapter WIPs going. I need to start posting or I’ll go insane.

 

Chapter One

These New Shades

 

**_Sapphire Heiress Missing!!!!!_ **

_Distraught Guardian Offers Reward For Information!!!_

 

Duncan Morne picked up the discarded newspaper and perused the headlines.  Below the large typeface was an illustration of a willowy young woman being dragged through a garden by a masked figure, her nightdress and long hair blowing in the wind as she looked longingly behind her at a castle on a hill.  Beneath that drawing was a second, smaller illustration of a handsome young man, his face grave and grieved as he held a crushed rose in his hand.

Duncan snorted into the dregs of his coffee cup.  The noise caught the attention of the two gaffers who spent most of their day idling in the coffee house Duncan frequented when he was between situations.

“Oi, young ser, what make you of this?  You’re from down Tarth way, aren’t you?”  The chatty old man sitting closer to Dunc asked.

“No, ser, my family comes from Bronzegate.”

“Thought Morne was a Tarth name.”

“It might have been a long time ago.  But I never even saw the sea until I came to Kings Landing.”

“But you are a Stormlander.  What do you think of the hubbub over this lass?”

Duncan slapped the newspaper once on the table.  “Well, this rag surely isn’t telling the whole story.”

“Oh, aye.  The Courier’s Conservative through and through.  Wouldn’t say boo to Jon Connington, even if he’d been found clutching a bloody knife, standing over her dead body.  Just as long as all those lovely gemstones find their way into the Prime Minister’s pockets.  If he can make room with all that gold he’s got already.”

“Now, Jeor,” his daily companion in coffee and gossip piped up, “Jon Connington’s a good man.”

“He might have been once, Aemon, but now he’s one of Casterly’s lackeys, just like the rest of those Tories.  Whole business is havey-cavey. The government’s got no right to be appointing guardians as if that girl’s Pa was dead instead of off exploring Ulthos for Her Majesty’s Navy.  Admiral Lord Tarth ain’t no fool.  If he thought his girl could handle things, she could have.  No call for Lannisters to be interfering.”

“Well, the Liberals didn’t do much better by her.  Baratheon’s supposed to be her other guardian, but he’s sitting on his fat arse at Storm’s End, collecting his percentage of the mines.  Didn’t even know the lass was missing and she’s been gone for weeks according to the Telegraph.  Girl went and got herself betrothed to Connington’s own nephew and Robert had no idea.  And what’s the Lazy Stag doing about it now?”  Old Aemon’s lips twisted in scorn.  “Sending his little brother to ‘investigate’.  What Renly Fancypants is supposed to accomplish, only the Stranger knows.”

Duncan took umbrage at this last.  “Lord Renly is a fine young man.  I’m sure he’ll get to the bottom of any nefarious dealings.”

“Whatever he finds out, that poor lass is probably out in the Straits of Tarth feeding the crabs.  Young girl disappears without a trace, nothing good has happened.  You mark my words, lad.” 

Jeor nodded his head along with Aemon’s pronouncement.

“Well, the fate of the Sapphire Heiress has nothing to do with me.”  Duncan took out his pocket watch and checked the time.

“You may be the only one in Kings Landing that doesn’t care, boy.  It’s too good a distraction from the way the Old Lion is gutting the country.” 

“Jeor,” Aemon replied, “It’s the Liberals …”

Duncan tuned out the unending political debate between the two old men.  Never mattered how the topic started out, it always came down to Whigs vs. Tories.

Dunc had passed enough of his lamentably free morning to go on to his only appointment of the week so far.  He took a hopeful sip from his cup, eking out the last drops of the one coffee he could afford today. He gave the two old men a cordial nod and made his way out the door before they could cast anymore comments or questions in his direction.

It would be a longish walk in front of him.  But the money for a hackney cab or even for the horse tram was more than Dunc could afford to spend when he had two perfectly good, very strong legs to take him from Cobbler’s Square to the base of Visenya’s Hill.

Duncan had not anticipated it would take him so long to find acceptable employment in Kings Landing.  His practical experience in managing an estate and excellent references from Lord Renly Baratheon and Ser Martyn Goodwin could not overcome his apparent youth, his lack of a university degree and his unfortunate looks.  Though Duncan had almost worn out his shoes visiting banks and businesses and was on the books of two of the town’s busiest employment agencies, honest work had been sporadic and fleeting.  The dishonest work offered to a man of his size and strength was abhorrent.

Everything in the city was so dear.  Dunc had established himself in a modest hotel on his arrival in Kings Landing, expecting employment would come quickly and he would then find a more permanent residence or perhaps have room and board provided by his employer.  He had lingered on at the hotel, hoping that a good situation was just around the corner.  And his ready funds had quickly diminished.  He was down to having to pay for his lodgings night by night now and the hotel’s manager had informed him that at this week’s end, he would no longer be welcome at the Sparrow’s Inn.  If today’s venture did not work out, Dunc might find himself sleeping rough in a sept yard once Monday rolled around.

Dunc had worked part of the previous week doing the books in the office of one of Kings Landing’s music halls.  Though the wages had been poor, it was an interesting, if very different experience.  In addition to attending the performance each night to sell tickets and count the gate, Dunc had met a number of the theatrical folk who were employed by hall.  One of them, the show’s comic, had come to the office with a problem that Dunc had been able to resolve for him.  Impressed with Duncan’s knowledge and good manners, Mr. Seaworth had taken him for “a pint and a pie” on Dunc’s last night.  Mr. Seaworth had been surprisingly easy to talk to and had learned all of Duncan’s troubles before the mug of ale had been drained.  It had been Mr. Seaworth who had arranged for Dunc to meet the proprietress of the boarding house he was walking toward on this breezy Kings Landing morning.

The Rose Garden was situated on a respectable square at the base of Visenya’s Hill.  The owner was well known, perhaps even notorious, in Kings Landing.  Rumored to be the errant daughter of a noble house, she had been the foremost actress and beauty of her generation.  After “Miss Olenna Rose” conquered the stage, she had parlayed her looks and intelligence into a brilliant marriage to an enormously wealthy merchant.  According to Mr. Seaworth, Lady Olenna, as he called her, did not need the funds her boarders brought in, but she liked having people around her, particularly interesting young people.

Duncan hoped that he would prove interesting enough.

Mr. Seaworth had been one of Mrs. Redwyne’s boarders for years.  He had nothing but good things to say about the lady, the neighborhood, the house and the company to be found there.

Standing across the street, Duncan gazed at a building almost large enough to be called a mansion.  A discreet plaque on the black wrought iron gate bore the words “The Rose Garden” in an ornate filigree script.  It was a beautiful house in the style of the beginning of the century, much finer than anything Duncan had dreamed of.  He took a moment to straighten his cravat, shoot his shirt cuffs and run a hand over his uncontrollable blond hair.  Water was no substitute for expensive pomade and he feared his many cowlicks must be sticking straight up out of his scalp.  If he did not begin to bring in more funds soon, he would have to take his own scissors to his hair again.  Those results were always less than polished, if one was being kind, and downright unsightly if one wasn’t.  And the rougher his appearance, the less likely that he would find decent employment.

Dunc was reaching for the knocker when the door opened and a remarkably handsome young man stopped short on seeing him.  He goggled for a minute at Duncan’s physiognomy, then seemed to recover his manners.

“Oh, hullo.  Are you the fella about the room?”  The young man’s voice was deep and compelling, full of self confidence.

Dunc blinked several times to steady himself.  He’d been startled by the sudden opening of the door and it had thrown off his carefully prepared words of introduction.

“Well, ser, are you here about the room or not?  I can’t stand in the doorway all day.”

The rudeness grounded Duncan.  That was something he was used to.  “Yes, I am here about the available lodging.  I have an appointment with Mrs. Redwyne in just a few moments.”

“Early.  Can’t abide punctuality myself, but Grandmama does appreciate it, at least in others.”  The young man turned and looked behind him into the hallway.  “Erryk, tell Lady Olenna this fellow is here about the Blue Room.”

“I’m Arryk, Mr. Tyrell.”

“Well, whichever you are, be off to inform your mistress.”  Mr. Tyrell, as Dunc gathered the young man was called, then turned back and crowded Dunc off the doorstep. “Go ahead in.  My grandmother will be with you directly.”

Duncan stopped just inside the foyer and looked around him.  The promise of the exterior was upheld.  It was a very nice house.  The doorway to a large drawing room was open, allowing Dunc to peer in.  Eschewing the current fashion for overstuffed interiors, it looked to offer a comfortable place to rest one’s self after a long day.  The room was full of light, with curtains pulled back and windows cracked to let in the fresh breeze coming up off the bay.  Even the foyer was bright and sunny from a skylight several stories above Duncan’s head.  As might be assumed by the house’s sobriquet, there were roses everywhere.  Bouquets filled vases and bowls.  There were roses embroidered onto cushions and woven into the brocade of the draperies and furniture coverings.  Thankfully none of them were red.  Duncan loathed heavy fragranced, bloody petaled red roses, most roses in fact just by association.  These though were quite nice.  The color ranged from palest cream to deepest gold, accented most frequently with shades of peach and dark green.  They leant a lightly sweet, almost fruity fragrance to the air.  It made for an elegant impression, with the just the slightest hint of superiority.

The footman, in his forest green livery, his golden rosette buttons gleaming, returned to Dunc.  “I’m to show you upstairs.  Lady Olenna will be along presently.”  With a suspicious look at Duncan, the footman started up the curving staircase.

“How many people are residing in the house at the moment … Arryk, was it?”

“Not for me to say, ser.  Lady Olenna will answer your questions, if she deems you fitting.”

Duncan sighed rather heavily and continued to trudge past the first-floor landing and up to the second.  The footman obviously did not expect Dunc to be found fitting.  They turned to walk down a spacious hallway.  Arryk, if that’s who he was, stopped at the first door on the side of the house away from the street.

“The Blue Room, ser.”  And he opened the door with a flourish.

Dunc stepped over the threshold and his breath caught in his throat.  The room was _beautiful!_

Painted Pentoshi silk, in an elegant Wedgewood blue with a tracery of ivory vines and roses, covered the walls above wainscoting painted the same soft ivory.  The _large!_ bedstead of dark wood was covered in a complementary fabric in a much darker shade of blue with numerous plump ivory pillows just waiting for a weary head to rest upon them.  A wardrobe, chest, wash stand and desk in the same dark wood as the bed and a comfortable looking armchair completed the room’s furnishings.  The hearth was tiled with more blue and ivory and the fire screen was a luscious gleaming bronze.  Dark blue draperies that matched the coverlet framed _two!_ good sized windows that graced the large corner chamber.  The dark wood furniture and window hangings might have made the room seem heavy, but the bright view out the windows was of the loveliest town garden that Dunc had ever seen.

_Please.  I humbly beseech you, old gods and new.  Please, let me find a safe haven here._

Arryk cleared his throat and brought Dunc out his moment of desperate prayer.  The footman opened his mouth to speak but was forestalled.

“Whatever flowery introduction you have prepared, Right, isn’t necessary.  This young man and I shall do very well on our own.  Take yourself off.  You can’t stand around all day looking decorative.  You have other duties to attend to.”

Dismissed, the footman went back down the hallway as his mistress watched his retreat.

Duncan looked down upon the arbiter of his fate.  She was a petite, handsome woman, bristling with energy though likely well past her sixtieth name day.  Duncan could readily imagine her commanding every eye in a darkened theatre.  While her carriage was the ideal of feminine grace, she leaned lightly on the ebony cane in her left hand.  The other hand, she extended to Duncan with a flourish.

“I am Olenna Redwyne.  You must be the young man my dear Davos has been praising to the skies all week.”

Duncan took her soft, elegant hand in one of his own large paws and bowed over it awkwardly.  “Duncan Morne, at your service, Mrs. Redwyne.  It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”

“I needn’t ask you what you think of the room.  It was written all over your face when I entered.  It’s rare to see such longing so plainly on someone’s countenance.”  Mrs. Redwyne’s dark eyes were sharp as sabers as her glance raked Duncan from head to toe.

“I fear I’ve never had a talent for dissembling, ma’am.  Everyone seems to perceive my feelings with a single look at my face.”

“If that is indeed true, _young lady,_ why, in the name of the Seven, are you attempting to masquerade as a man?”


	2. Making Mr. Morne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the dramatic reveal…

 Brienne… _Duncan_ attempted to remain calm in the face of Mrs. Redwyne’s bold inquiry.

"I don’t understand what you are insinuating, ma’am.”

“I am not insinuating anything, my child.  I am stating it outright.  You are a young woman dressed in men’s clothes, living as a man.”  Mrs. Redwyne gave a brisk nod affirming her own opinion.  “I spent years doing the breeches roles on the stage.  In my youth I was celebrated for my Roslyn, my Viela, my Imegyn.  You are doing a fair job of it, but not good enough to fool anyone who knows what to look for.”

Brienne sighed and collapsed in the armchair.  She had lived in fear of being discovered for weeks.  And she had crumpled at the first confrontation.  “What are you going to do?”  She asked miserably.

“Why help you to do better, of course.”  Mrs. Redwyne smiled brightly.  “I defied all expectations in my youth and chose the most scandalous path available to me at the time.  I would never blame another woman for making whatever future she can for herself.”  She leaned forward and peered deeply into Brienne’s eyes.  “And to tell you the truth, my dear, being a grande dame is very boring.  These days coaching other actors to an acceptable portrayal is the closest I come to the satisfaction of performing myself.”

Brienne raised her eyes from the carpet and met the older woman’s razor sharp gaze.  “That would be very generous of you, ma’am.  I don’t know how I could repay you for your assistance.”

“You can allow me to watch as you take on the men of Kings Landing and beat them at their own games.  Even if it had occurred to me, I could never have attempted what you are doing myself, much as I might have enjoyed it.  I did not have the figure to truly simulate a male even from the distance of the stage, though I worked hard to create the best illusion I could.  You may tell me of your true history or not.  I will not press you.  But I do hope that whenever Mr. Morne triumphs over the so called stronger sex, you will rush home to tell me all about it.”

“Home?  The room is mine, then?”

“Certainly, my dear.  It will be the work of more than an afternoon to make your _travesto_ portrayal more convincing.  But come, let us retire to the drawing room and we will discuss matters over tea with a bit of brandy to help you recover from the shock.”

“But I’ll need to fetch my things from my hotel.  They won’t hold them past three o’clock if I’m not there to pay for tonight’s lodging.”

Mrs. Redwyne gracefully waved her hand in the air as if this was a trifle.  “I’ve already sent my footmen for your luggage and whatnots.  I knew the moment I saw you approach from across the square that I’d welcome someone so _interesting_ into my home.  And Left and Right have little enough to do during the day, waiting on an old lady like me.  A bit of an airing will do them good.”

Brienne rose from her seat to exit the room.  Mrs. Redwyne twined her arm through Brienne’s and they took one or two steps.

“Now, this is an error right at the start, my dear.  You are behaving as a woman does, not as a man.  A gentleman would have offered _me_ his arm, rather than waiting for me to make the gesture, as a young lady does with her senior.  _He_ would also allow me to exit the room first and follow behind, not at my side.  Here.”  Mrs. Redwyne made some adjustments to the position of Brienne’s arm relative to her own.  “This is the position that your arm should be in when you offer it to a woman.  If I take it, you will adjust your gait to mine and allow me to release you when we reach the doorway.  Even if the door is already open, you will hold onto the knob to ensure some errant gust of wind doesn’t blow it into my feeble, female person and then allow me to get beyond the doorway before you move to follow.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Redwyne.”  Brienne obediently matched the lady’s pace and took a mincing step towards the exit.

“It will not be difficult for you to make these adjustments, having been gently raised yourself.”

Brienne sent a panicked look at her companion.

“Don’t look so fearful, girl.  It’s obvious.  Your speech, your manners are those of a gentlewoman.  You do have the advantage that most of the necessary courtesies have been drilled into you.  You’ll simply need to approach them from the other side of the aisle, as it were.  You shouldn’t go wrong if you behave towards all women as though they are made of glass, and feeble minded to boot.  Treat all men as if they are your elders and social superiors.  That should answer well enough for most of the people you will meet.  While seeking employment it is better to be too obsequious rather than not obsequious enough.”

“Yes, Mrs. Redwyne.”

Please, call me Lady Olenna, my dear.  All my tenants do.”

***

Seated in the elegant drawing room with the tea tray on the table and cups in their hands, they were joined by Lady Olenna’s granddaughter.   She was with her grandmother when Brienne arrived and came to the same realization as to Brienne’s true gender.

The tea was a lovely, fragrant YiTi black, much better than Brienne had been able to afford since she fled from Tarth.  Her cup had a paper thin slice of lemon and a smidgen of brandy in it.  Lady Olenna’s and Miss Tyrell’s cups contained as much brandy as tea.

“Brandy is excellent for the voice box, Miss .. no, let us stick with Mr. Morne.  You should live as a man at all times in order to be convincing.  We should not get into the habit of addressing you by your true name, lest it slip out at an inopportune moment.”  Lady Olenna explained as she took a tiny sip from her cup.  “Your natural contralto needs a bit of a growl to it, as though you were getting over a bad cold.  I’ll instruct you in ways to achieve that, to roughen your voice up just a bit to help to sell your portrayal.  You should be careful not to indulge in brandy very often when you find an employer.”

“But the brandy does make plain old insipid tea more tolerable.”  Miss Tyrell smiled a knowing smile.  She had a face made for knowing smiles.  “Now, Mr. Morne, do enlighten us as to your history and motivation.”

“It may not be wise for you to know my reasons for choosing this method of hiding my identity.  I was fleeing intolerable circumstances and …”

Lady Olenna interrupted. “No, no, no, my dear.  We do not want to hear the lady’s story.  As I told you, you may choose to share that as you like, as much as you like.  We want to know about the character that you are playing, Mr. Duncan Morne.  Unless you know Mr. Morne backwards and forwards, you cannot convincingly _inhabit_ him.  Especially since you have no lines, no script to work from.  You must extemporize every moment of this portrayal.  If you do not know who Mr. Morne is and how he came to this point in his life, how will you _be_ him every moment, in every situation?”

“I had not thought of that.”  Brienne said, with some embarrassment.

“Why should you have, Duncan?  I may call you Duncan, mayn’t I?”  Lady Olenna’s granddaughter’s smile left knowing behind and moved to winsome.  “And you must call me Margaery.  You are not an actor.  I take leave to doubt that you have even played pretend since you were a small child.  Creating a history is not something that most people have experience with, having lived their own.  Luckily, you have been taken under the wing of one of the best.  My grandmama was famous for her preparation before taking on a new role and it is one of the things she teaches to the acting students who come to her for instruction.”

“Yes, yes, Margaery darling, no need to butter the bread so thickly.”  Lady Olenna looked flattered despite her chiding tone.  “If you have finished your brandy tea, fetch a pen and paper to take down all the particulars we are going to discover about Mr. Duncan Morne.”

Margaery threw a smirk in Brienne’s direction at her grandmother’s words, but fetched writing materials nonetheless.

“Tell me all about Duncan Morne.  Where was he born?”

“I’ve told a few people that he … _I_ am from the Stormlands.  But I wonder now if that was wise.”

“No, no, anything you have told to another person about Mr. Morne must be taken as the truth.  You cannot change it now.”  Lady Olenna said.

“But I’m unlikely to see any of them again.  They are all located in Cobbler’s Square and we are here on Visenya’s Hill.”

“What if you find employment in the area of Cobbler’s Square?  What would you do if you ran into an old acquaintance when you have told a new acquaintance an entirely different story about your past?  And remember, you’ll be seeing Davos every day here in the house.  You must stay consistent not only with what you’ve told him but what he inferred about you.  Even if you wish to tell Davos the truth of your identity, he will come into contact with others who met you at the music hall.”

“Would it be best to keep Duncan’s story as close to my own as possible?”  Brienne said.

“Yes, if only to make it easier to remember things.  But you can only do so in matters which do not contradict what you have already established with other people.”

Question by question the ladies created the life of Mr. Duncan Morne.  Lady Olenna was ruthless in drilling Brienne on the facts that they established, moving back and forth through time periods and importance, from his education to what was his favorite meal.  After several hours, made more pleasant by several more cups of tea and a delicious luncheon, finally Lady Olenna called a halt to that day’s work.  Her mind swimming with details and fatigue, Brienne breathed a sigh of relief.

Lady Olenna stood and circled the table to stand before Brienne.  “There are only a few more things we must confront right away.  We must make your appearance more masculine.”

Brienne grimaced at this.  “You are the only one so far to see through my disguise.  All my life men have been mocking me for how very masculine I am.  What could make me more so?”

“Those men were being cruel, not truthful.”  Lady Olenna said without a trace of the pity Brienne detested receiving from attractive people.  “I suspect many of the men who have met Duncan Morne have felt there is something not quite right about him.  Why else would such a fine, intelligent young man with such excellent references still be without employment?”

“Even Davos knew that there was something off with Mr. Morne.  He thought it was because Duncan was … a practitioner of the Myrish ways of romance.”  Margaery added.

Brienne’s brow wrinkled in confusion.  “The what?”

“Men who prefer other men as their romantic partners, my dear.”  Lady Olenna said briskly, as though that was not an outrageous concept at all.  “You will find that my grandson has those proclivities.  I believe that Davos may have been playing matchmaker and arranged all this simply as a way to introduce you to Loras.”

Brienne blushed deeply.

“Don’t worry about it, my dear.  Loras is always up to some intrigue or another.  Mr. Morne would be far too straightforward and honest for him.  Now, the changes we shall have to make …”

“The hair, Grandmother?”  Margaery asked.

“Yes, your hair must be cut in a way that will not draw attention to your eyes.  Those eyes are the windows to the soul of an innocent maiden, without a doubt.  Margaery can see to that.  With a bit of macassar oil we will tame your unruly mop and keep those curling little wisps off your temples.”  Lady Olenna nodded as she ticked off one item on a proverbial list.

“Your skin is too smooth for the age you are portraying.”  Margaery said.  “A man in his early twenties, even a blonde one would have some slight evidence of a beard.  Your freckles make it less obvious, but we will have to remedy the situation somehow.”

“A false beard or mustache?”  Brienne asked, a bit hopefully.

“No, they are far too hard to maintain and likely to come loose at the worst possible moment.”  Lady Olenna declared decisively.  “I could tell you horror stories from the stage for the entire afternoon and not scratch the surface of the fickle nature of false beards.  Instead, I shall show you how to use just a touch of makeup to give the illusion of a shadow on your upper lip and jawline.  That should be subtle enough to pass muster.  A bit more makeup on your cheeks might bring down the intensity of your girlish blushes, but we will see if that is necessary.”

Brienne had watched her father’s lovers playing with their paint pots as they dressed for dinner.  The idea of learning some part of those mysteries intrigued her.

“There is no delicate way to approach this last topic, my dear.”  Lady Olenna’s lips twisted into a wicked smile.  “Men might not realize what they are, or are not, seeing, but I’m sure all of them are registering on some level your lack of a male member.”

Brienne drew in a shocked breath.

“Thank the gods, I see you are aware of the anatomical differences between men and women.  The smoothness at the falls of your trousers is, I’m sure, quite troubling to many men, even if they don’t understand what is bothering them about you.  We shall contrive something to give you a convincing, but not intimidating fullness in that region.  It shall require a bit of sewing before we have a first effort.  Have you any talent with a needle?”

“None at all, I’m afraid.”  Brienne replied.

“Then, Margaery, my dear, it is up to you.  We can discuss a design after dinner.”

“I could not ask Miss Tyrell to do something so … so …”, Brienne sputtered.

“Don’t concern yourself, Duncan.  It shall be much more interesting than embroidering golden roses on every surface.”  Margaery said with a laugh that tinkled in the air like silver bells.

“I believe that we have done as much as we can for today.  You look caught between shock and exhaustion, Mr. Morne.  Your things have been put in the Blue Room, but I hesitated to have the maids unpack for you.  It wouldn’t do from them to find something inappropriate for a young man on your first day here.”

“I would like to settle in, my lady.”

“It might be best if you took a tray in your room for dinner this evening.”  Lady Olenna said.  “Let’s have as much of your portrayal in place as we can before you spend any substantial time with my other guests.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“I’ll see you up, shall I?  I may need to see your selection of small clothes in order to devise an appropriate … appendage.”  Margaery smiled at Brienne’s blush.  “Do you like horrid novels, Duncan?  They are a weakness of mine.”

“I have not had a great deal of time for reading these past few years, but in my youth they were a favorite.”  Brienne smiled.

“I knew we were going to be fast friends!”  Margaery aimed a significant look at Brienne and waited.  Brienne thought for a moment and then offered her arm in the proper gentlemanly manner.  “I shall bring you several of the latest published.  It will help you while away the evening stuck in your room.”

Margaery continued to chatter as she and Brienne walked up the staircase.

***

After settling Duncan in his new room, snug before the fire with a tea tray and a selection of lurid, melodramatic reading material, Margaery came back to the drawing room.  Lady Olenna was enjoying a whiskey after the day’s activities. She easily recognized the expression on her grandmother’s face.  Opportunity had been dropped in their laps and Grandmama was considering how best to turn it to her advantage.  Lady Olenna considered plotting to be one of life’s most pleasurable activities and, in truth, it was her greatest talent. 

“Everything is arranged, Grandmama.  I expect that our new guest will make a very early night of it.”  Margaery said, pouring her own generous drink and then gracefully taking a seat on one of the forest green sofas.  “The poor dear, she looked all in.”

“ _He_ did indeed.  I can’t imagine what tension and fear that young … man has been living under for the past months.”

“He was fortunate to find his way to us, Grandmama.  And _we_ are fortunate to have found him.”  Margaery smirked.  “What plans are you fomenting to take advantage of this windfall that has come into our lives?”

“I had thought for a moment to try to promote a match with Loras, but I gave that up after only a few minutes conversation with dear Mr. Morne.”

“Yes, Loras would find her to be too much man for him.  But there must be other ways to be of assistance to both Duncan and ourselves.  Intrigue is so much more satisfying when more than one of the parties benefits.”

“I shall put out feelers for a position with a well connected family.  Just the sort of situation where Mr. Morne will be meeting the right people and perhaps opening a path for you to meet them as well.”

“We were less than successful using that ploy with Sansa.”

A frown creased Lady Olenna’s brow.  “Yes, that young lady has proved much more serious about her singing career than I ever expected.  She seemed such a malleable girl when she first arrived.  I had no expectation that she could stand up to the rigors of being a performer.”  Lady Olenna shook her head and continued.  “If nothing else, Mr. Morne seems quite close to the Baratheons.  Lord Renly will want to check in on his friend when he visits town.”

“Lord Renly is quite handsome and obliging.”  Margaery observed.  “I met him very briefly when I was at the Tully’s musicale last season.  He would be acceptable to me, if it could be arranged.”

Lady Olenna leaned forward and patted her granddaughter’s hand.  “We shall find you a brilliant match, my love.  One to make our haughty Tyrell relations green with envy.  If Duncan Morne can’t be of sufficient assistance with that, I’m certain that Lady Brienne Tarth, the Sapphire Heiress can.”

 

 


	3. Small Man, Large Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if Lord Tyrion Lannister didn't have enough to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to parallel titles with English nobility. The Westerosi Lords Paramount are Dukes and the titles derive from their estates: Duke of Casterly, Winterfell, etc. The heir apparent to the dukedom carries a courtesy title, usually the secondary title of the Duke. So Jaime is Viscount Lannisport. Non-heir sons of dukes and daughters of earls and above carry the courtesy title Lord or Lady .
> 
> In case you really know this stuff, I'm skipping Marquess as a Westerosi title.

 

Tyrion Lannister finished the late breakfast brought by his manservant, spiced with a heaping helping of what Bronn considered wit.  It was not at all unusual for a gentleman about town to wake well after the clock struck noon.  Perhaps four in the afternoon was a bit excessive, but Tyrion had been very late, or early, returning from his evening out.  Bronn’s comments about lazy little lordlings needing their porridge had been uncalled for.

The delightfully exotic and witty Shae was becoming ever more jealous and demanding of Tyrion’s attention as the Kings Landing social season progressed.  Tyrion would have liked to think that she coveted of his time because she feared losing him to his father’s unending campaign to get one of his sons married and producing heirs.  But a soiled dove from Essos and the Prime Minister of the land had no points of intersection.  As much as Tyrion hoped that the absence of his delightful company was causing Shae’s ill humor, he was cynical enough to believe that it was the lack of presents, parties, and opportunities to display herself before potential future protectors that were truly bothering his mistress.

If Tyrion had more time and energy to devote to the project of finding a replacement, he might decide that it was time to part ways with Shae.  But if he had such time and energy, Shae would be content, and there would be no need for a new lover.  It was a conundrum.

Giving up his mistress during the season would also encourage His Grace, the Duke of Casterly to throw even more of the second rank of the current debutantes in Tyrion’s path hoping one of them would stick.

If Tyrion had to sit through another ball with a progression of young maidens entirely lacking in conversation, humor, and intelligence, he would not be responsible for his actions.

Father had become especially overbearing this season, as Tyrion approached his thirtieth name day.  Threats of being cut off were coming more frequently, occasionally more than once a day.  Bronn especially enjoyed delivering those missives to Tyrion, using the silver tray as a proper footman would do, before he dropped the notes in Tyrion’s lap and sat himself down with a hearty “What’s got the old Lion’s knickers in a twist this time?”

Tyrion ought to stop encouraging that behavior by reading His Grace’s letters aloud for Bronn’s acerbic appreciation.  Bronn simply did not know his place.  And Tyrion rather liked him for it.

Taking the last bite of bacon and the last sip of his ale, Tyrion dabbed his lips with a napkin and heaved a sigh of relief.  The hangover from last night’s revels was finally abating.  He could face the world again.

“Is my brother in?” Tyrion asked the manservant, who had helped himself to a tumbler of Tyrion’s best whiskey after delivering the breakfast tray.

Tyrion’s digs were entirely adequate for his purposes, an excellently situated flat on Visenya’s Hill, with a good sized drawing room, a roomy library and a fine master suite.  Unfortunately, it also contained a large and comfortable second bedchamber.  A chamber currently occupied by Tyrion’s older half-brother.

Tyrion loved his brother.  Of that, there was no doubt.  Only Jaime had made Tyrion’s youth tolerable. 

Their mutual father had hated Tyrion from the day of his birth.  Tyrion’s mother, the only person the Duke of Casterly ever loved, died bringing Tyrion into the world.  To make matters worse in His Grace’s eyes, he had traded his cherished second wife for an inferior second son.  Folk said that the death of the Duke’s first wife, Jaime’s mother, had little effect on Tywin Lannister.  But the death of his second Duchess, Joanna destroyed any drop of the milk of human kindness that might have survived generations of the wealth and arrogance that the Lannisters of Casterly Rock had bred into the bone.

That hate did not stop His Grace from attempting to force Tyrion to play a role in the master plan for the furtherance of the Lannister legacy.

The Duke’s antipathy had paled in comparison to the feelings of Tyrion’s half-sister Cersei.  Their mutual mother had been Cersei’s only surviving parent.  Her father, a distant cousin of the Duke, had died when she was only two.  Tyrion believed the only thing that kept her from killing him in his cradle was Jaime’s affection for his baby brother.  Cersei wanted her step brother’s love more than anything, and so, she hid as much of her malice as she could when Jaime was nearby. 

Joanna Lannister was said to have been a kind, generous and loving woman of great beauty.  Cersei got the beauty, but those other qualities passed her by.  When Jaime wasn’t around to act as a check on her behavior, all bets were off.

Tyrion’s short legs and arms bore scars from the “pranks” that Cersei played on him after Jaime went away to school.  Tyrion always circled the dates when Jaime would return for the holidays in red on his calendars.  The happiest day of Tyrion’s life had been when Cersei had been summarily shipped off to Braavos to wed an official of the Iron Bank.

He still heard her hissing, hateful whispers in the night when he couldn’t sleep.

Yes, Tyrion did indeed love his brother, more than anyone and anything.  But he wasn’t as sure that he loved him as a lingering guest in his flat.

If Tywin was overbearing in his attempts to get Tyrion wed to a suitable maiden, he was downright tyrannical in his efforts to find a wife for Jaime.  Jaime was the heir to the dukedom, after all.  Tywin found it practically criminal that Jaime was approaching thirty-five and remained resolutely unmarried and childless. 

As seemed to happen more and more in the last years, Jaime could no longer tolerate his father’s demands and machinations and had moved out of the Casterly town mansion to take up residence in Tyrion’s guest room, with his manservant Podrick accompanying him.  The addition of two people in the roomy flat should not have felt so oppressive to Tyrion.  Jaime could be excellent company, with a biting wit that matched Tyrion’s own overlaying a deep well of kindness.  Jaime frequently had his own business affairs to attend to and took himself off for hours of the day and night.  Podrick was an excellent valet, much better than Bronn.  When Pod was in residence, Tyrion’s shoes gleamed, his buttons were securely attached to his clothing, and the housemaid and cook were conscientious about their duties rather than lackadaisical.

But really, a grown man didn’t always want his brother living in his pocket.

Tyrion waited for Bronn to swallow his gulp of whiskey.

“Viscount Lannisport went out at a decent hour today.  Don’t know where, don’t know how long he’ll be gone.  Maybe back soon since Lady Whosit’s ball is tonight and he may want to hide out so he can’t be dragged to it.”

“It’s Lady Dayne’s ball, as you well know.  You read all my correspondence, and you also know that Father has demanded the presence of both of us on pain of withholding our quarterly allowances.  Have you laid out my evening clothes, by the way?”

“How could I when you were nestled all snug in your bed until half an hour ago?  Didn’t want to take a chance of ruining your beauty sleep.”  Bronn answered quickly.

“My dressing room has a separate entrance from the bedchamber for just that purpose.  Most valets manage to move about quietly enough that their masters are not disturbed as they go about their duties.  Why is it you find this beyond your abilities, Bronn?”

“Got out of the habit of creepin’ when I got out of the habit of stealin’.  Can’t go back to one without going back to the other.  And you’ve most particularly asked that I not go backwards, my lord.  And if I did, who would you find to do your dirty work?”

“I’m sure there is any number of men who would be happy to take my coin for their discretion.”

“Your coin is nothing compared to your father’s.  If you didn’t have my past profession to hold over me, I’d have made my fortune selling you out to your pa.”

“Yes, yes, we live in a state of mutually assured destruction.  You found out my secrets rifling my desk one dark evening; I found out yours when I caught you at it.”

Tyrion unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a sheaf of papers.  “Here is the latest article.  You will need to deliver it to Dondarrion by the usual method no later than six o’clock if it is to make next week’s edition of the Banner.”

“And what is Maester Agrivane whingeing about this time?  Your father’s new corn laws?  The poor houses?  The violence against the strikers in the Vale?”

“Maester Agrivane has decided to examine the interference of His Grace’s government in the matters of Tarth and the disappearance of the Sapphire Heiress.  The Liberal press isn’t pushing hard enough since Baratheon is just a culpable as Father is.  This article should light a fire under someone to find out what exactly happened to the poor girl.”

“Using the name of a maester from ancient times to keep your father from knowing that you are his harshest critic is wearing thin, my lord.  It’s going to backfire on you one day soon.  What you need a beard, someone you can hide behind if your father’s men come sniffing around again.”

“Is it already time again for your plea that I hire a secretary, Bronn?  You just want another person around to foist your work onto.”  Tyrion groaned.

“You need someone with some learning who can help you with all this.  The last article sounded so much like you; you could have been saying it around the dinner table.  Your father is going to know you are Agrivane if you don’t find a way to sound less like yourself.”

“And what should I do?  I can send you to prison for the rest of your life, and I barely trust you to keep my secret.  Now I should let another person in as well?”

“Find someone desperate.  There are enough of them out there.  Someone young and idealistic, who wouldn’t think of betraying your trust.  He could at least take over your everyday business and leave you more time to work on disguising the fact that you’re the one trying to scuttle the Old Lion’s ship of state.”

“Very well, Bronn.  I have been considering it since the last time you badgered me about it.  I’ll put out some bait and see if I can catch any loyal, honorable, needy young fish on my line.” 

***

Tyrion stood holding up the wall in Lady Dayne’s overheated ballroom.  So far this evening he had fetched punch for a Frey girl, gods only knew which one, endured sitting out a waltz with a disapproving Florent, and played a flirtatious hand of whist with young Widow Royce. 

If only Lady Royce had been interested in himself rather than him as a pathway to Jaime the evening might not be proving so tedious.

Tyrion did enjoy watching the distaste creeping over his brother’s face as he led Lord Lefford’s girl, the acknowledged belle of the season, in a polka.  Jaime hated dancing as much as Tyrion hated insipid conversation and being used to gain access to the members of his family.

“You seem to be less popular than usual this evening, Lord Tyrion.  It’s unusual not to find some young, lovely lady occupying your attention at these events.”

Ah, someone had taken advantage of his abstraction.  Luckily it was someone he could tolerate.

“Lord Varys, delightful to see you this evening.”  Tyrion always found the Lysene ambassador good for an innuendo-laden conversation.

Varys held to the dress of his home nation rather than the black and white formal wear of the Westerosi.  Tonight he was garbed in a lilac over robe covering a pair of blouson trousers in a sky blue.  Tyrion had felt quite the dandy in his new dinner suit until the Lysene joined him.  At least the modern design of his dinner jacket was less absurd on a dwarf than the formal tail coat his brother wore so handsomely.

“As I have told you before, Lord Tyrion, we in Lys do not carry titles as the Westerosi do.  I am merely Varys.”  A small smile crossed his lips that was not echoed in his eyes.

“You are an ambassador to the court of Queen Victaria.  That position alone carries with it the honorific of ‘Lord.’  My father would be even more disappointed in me than usual if he heard I had shown disrespect to the representative of the nation of Lys.”

Varys inclined his bald head gracefully a single time.  “As you say, Lord Tyrion.  Is your father expected here this evening?”

“No, he is not.  The press of governmental business keeps my father occupied until the wee hours of the morning.  But we, his sons, are here to represent the family.”

“Lord Lannisport has been greatly in demand this evening,”  Varys observed.

“The unmarried heir to a dukedom always will be.  I expect Jaime’s shirtsleeves will be rent by evening’s end from all the debutantes clutching at his arms to try to hold onto him.”  Tyrion took a sip from the glass of wine he was holding.  It would not do to reveal too much of … anything … to Varys.  Spying was almost the equal to sex in the occupations of Lysenes.

Tyrion surveyed the ballroom once again.

Wait.  Who was _that_?

“That, Lord Tyrion, is Miss Margaery Tyrell.”

Tyrion had not realized he had spoken aloud.

“One of the Highgarden Tyrells?”  He asked, then immediately answered his own question.  “No, of course not.  If His Grace had a daughter of suitable age, Father and Tyrell would have thrown her at Jaime’s head years ago.  One of the cousins, perhaps?”

Tyrion looked at Varys for information.  Knowing one of the most notable gossips in the land had its advantages.

“A more distant relation than that.  Miss Tyrell is Olenna Redwyne’s granddaughter.”

“The actress!  However, did she wangle an invitation here?”  Tyrion was more intrigued by the moment.

“Her brother is _friendly_ with Lady Dayne’s favorite nephew.  I expect Ser Arthur called in a favor from his aunt.”

“She is certainly receiving the cold shoulder from her hostess.  Are you acquainted with the lady, Lord Varys?  I should very much like an introduction if you are.”

“Let me see,” Varys looked towards the ceiling as if consulting some unseen ledger in his memory.  “Yes, I met the young lady at a musicale last season.  I believe that would be considered enough of an acquaintance to approach her.  Will you join me, Lord Tyrion?”

“Happily, ser, very happily.”  Tyrion’s evening was looking up.

 


	4. The Golden Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Jaime Lannister.

 

Colonel Jaime Lannister, Viscount Lannisport, barely managed to repress his sigh of annoyance.  He had received express instructions from his father, the almighty Duke of Casterly, Prime Minister of Westeros, wealthiest man in the land, that he, Jaime, was expected to dance twice tonight with Lord Lefford’s daughter and all the other sets at Lady Dayne’s ball with a prescribed list of young, wealthy, and presumably fecund debutantes.  Should Jaime fail to comply with this demand, his quarterly allowance would not arrive in his bank account in a timely manner.

Of course, Jaime had not received said instructions directly from his father.  No, they had come in the form of a late afternoon encounter with Father’s personal secretary and principle toady, the obsequious Mr. Pycelle.  How Pycelle had managed to track Jaime down when he had been out and about all day and had not spent more than half an hour at any one establishment was something Jaime did not care to contemplate.  It was suspected that Father’s government employed a vast network of spies.  It made Jaime’s shoulders twitch to think how many of them might be assigned to shadow him at any given time.

But defying Father had never turned out well for Jaime.  So he spun the Honorable Miss Alysanne Lefford around the floor in a rather sedate polka, the skirt of her sky blue gown brushing against the black trousers of his evening kit.  Jaime had only just avoided dancing a second waltz with the young lady, which would have been tantamount to a proposal of marriage. 

The girl was a schemer through and through.

"It is such a pity, Lord Lannisport, that the jewels are not seen more often.  The Lannister Sapphires are so famous, with such an intriguing story behind them.  That your ancestor would love his lady so dearly that he would scour the world for the finest gemstones as a gift to her is such a romantic notion.  Do none of your aunts ever wear them?”  Miss Lefford peeped up at Jaime through downcast eyelashes, her head cocked at the perfect angle to display her swanlike neck.

_I’m sure she believes she is hiding the avarice quite well.  Stupid child!  Does she think I haven’t heard the same approaches from a dozen just like her over the years?_

Though his thoughts were cutting, Jaime kept his voice even.  “My stepmother, gods rest her, was quite fond of the sapphire set.  She wore them frequently.  Since her passing, my father has not wished to see them adorning another lady.”

“I expect he will change his mind when you take a wife, my lord.  For something so rare and precious to go unappreciated is tragic.”  Miss Lefford’s blue-eyed gaze met Jaime’s eyes most earnestly. 

“Look at me” they seemed to say, “I was made to wear the finest jewels.”  Somehow Miss Lefford stretched her neck even farther, to demonstrate how well the famous sapphire parure would suit her.

The dance was finally coming to an end, along with Jaime’s patience.  He executed a series of swift turns, maneuvering them through the other couples towards the edge of the dance floor so that he could make a quick escape.  As Miss Lefford curtsied, Jaime gave a negligible bow and said quietly, “I don’t know if it was your mother or your septa who failed you, Miss Lefford.  Accept this bit of advice from someone older and wiser.  Speaking to a man through two dances about the content of his family’s vaults is not the best way to convince him that you find anything but his inheritance of interest.”

With that, he turned and left the young lady red-faced and seething to find her own way back to her chaperone.

Jaime had managed to insult or offend each one of the potential wives paraded before him tonight.  He considered it a good night’s work. And Father could not say that Jaime had not met the letter of his demands in every way. 

Word must have circulated through the ballroom that Casterly’s heir was in a mood.  Jaime was able to stand quietly on the sidelines, a few feet of empty space between himself and the other party goers.  He took his first relaxed breath of the evening and looked about for his brother.

He could just see Tyrion through the open doorway to the refreshment room.  A glass of something stronger than the punch being carried about by the servants in the ballroom sounded like just the thing that Jaime needed.

As he approached the small table, Jaime saw that Tyrion was not alone, and for once, did not look as though he was preparing to cut his companions to shreds with his wit.  Jaime halted to observe.

Tyrion was seated with that Lysene fellow of whom Father was so suspicious.  Father’s distaste made the ambassador automatically appealing to Tyrion.  There was a lady at their table as well. 

She was quite lovely, with shining chestnut curls, a glowing complexion, and a creamy white bosom prettily displayed by her forest green gown trimmed with golden ribbons and rosettes.  She gestured gracefully with one gloved hand while the other held a glass of champagne.  Tyrion appeared rather riveted by her.

The lady was unfamiliar to Jaime, which must mean that she was either new to town or did not have sufficiently noble birth or wealth to draw Father’s attention.  And since the lady was several years past the age of making her debut, Jaime suspected the latter was the case. 

She might not be worthy in Father’s eyes of meeting his heir, but the Old Lion’s criteria for Tyrion’s future wife were not so stringent.  Whoever she was, word would get back to Father quickly that his younger son willingly spent time with a woman whose reputation was unblemished enough to be received by Lady Dayne.

That news would easily overshadow Jaime’s surly behavior with his dance partners tonight.  On the plus side, if Father was plotting over Tyrion, it might distract his attention from Jaime for a bit.  On the minus, Tywin Lannister was more than able to plot for both his sons at once.

_Might as well make my possible good sister’s acquaintance._

As Jaime approached the table, the lady’s eyes widened, as women’s eyes had for him since he was a youth.  A point against her.  Tyrion observed her attention wandering and looked around to see him.

“Ah, brother, this is where you have been hiding.  You missed my masterful set down of Miss Lefford.”  Jaime smirked at the table.  “I believe that young woman will no longer consider a man’s family jewels to be her property before there is even a betrothal.”

Tyrion frowned up at him.  His brother found Jaime’s annoying society persona trying on occasion.  And this was one of those occasions, it appeared.

“Jaime, try not to be a bigger ass than you can help.  You will sit down and drink some wine.  That may sweeten the taste of the evening.  You are acquainted with Lord Varys, are you not?”  When Jaime nodded his head in greeting to the ambassador, Tyrion continued.  “And this lovely flower amongst our weeds is Miss Margaery Tyrell.  Miss Tyrell, this fellow is my brother, Lannisport.”  A little twist came at the end of the introduction, as though Tyrion was not best pleased to be making it.

Jaime took Miss Tyrell’s hand and bowed over it while he tried to place her in the Reach’s first family.  “Charmed, Miss Tyrell.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Lannisport.  Your brother mentioned that you were doing ballroom duty tonight.  Were you not best pleased by your partners?”  The lady was quite attractive, but her mouth had a twist that made Jaime feel his own smirk was somehow insufficient.

“I’m afraid that the current crop of debutantes is lacking in guile or even discretion.  I half expected to be asked if they could count my teeth to determine if I was a worthwhile purchase.”  Jaime snarked.

Miss Tyrell widened her eyes in shock.  “How terrible for you!  I’m sure that you were making every effort at scintillating conversation and then having it so rudely ignored.  I do not know what we are coming to!”

Jaime’s head drew back at the rebuke in her words as Tyrion snorted a laugh.  Miss Tyrell smiled at his brother and took a sip of her champagne.

“She has you there, brother.  You haven’t made an effort to be agreeable in a ballroom since you were in short trousers.”  Tyrion crowed.

Jaime was amazed but pleased to see all of Miss Tyrell’s attention was back on his little brother.  “As you say, Miss Tyrell.  It is indeed shocking that young ladies can think of anything but my abundant charms when they are in my arms.”

The conversation continued through the late supper and a second bottle of champagne.  Tyrion seemed to delight in trading quips with Miss Tyrell at Jaime’s expense.  Lord Varys occasionally added a dry observation that capped a jest already begun.  Jaime hoped he gave as good as he got.  He usually only engaged in such raillery with Tyrion when they were in private.  Their laughter drew attention from the people left in the refreshment room as the ball began to wind down.

Jaime had had a long day, being up at dawn as his days in the army had taught him.  He barely caught the beginning of a yawn, but Tyrion saw it and gave him a small nod.

“I’m afraid it may be time to take our leave.  Tyrion, did you not wish to get an early start tomorrow, inquiring after a private secretary?  The employment agencies will have closed if you wait until your usual time to rise in the afternoon.”  Jaime said.

Lord Varys blinked once.  “You are in need of a secretary, Lord Tyrion?  This is a happy coincidence.  Miss Tyrell, didn’t I hear that your grandmother has taken a young man under her wing who is seeking such employment?”

“I am surprised that you would have heard such a thing, Lord Varys, but that is indeed the case.  Duncan … Mr. Morne is a fine young man who has been unlucky thus far in his pursuit of gainful employment.”

“I thought Mrs. Redwyne concerned herself with people in theatrical pursuits,” Tyrion said.

_Ah, she’s one of those Tyrells.  Father will more angry than pleased to hear Tyrion spent the evening in her company._

“Not at all.  Grandmother will assist any interesting young person who is in need of help and willing to put in hard work for their rewards.  Actors have been the projects she undertakes most frequently, but Mr. Morne was recommended by one of my grandmother’s oldest friends as a fine young man in need of assistance.  And after meeting him, I can say that it is tragic that people have been so blind to Mr. Morne’s excellent qualities.”

“If he is such a paragon, why is he in need of such assistance?”  Jaime asked, suspicion clouding his voice.

“Mr. Morne is an intelligent and hard working young man.  But he is … his appearance is somewhat offputting.  I suspect that is what has kept him from enjoying the success that he ought to have.”

Tyrion sat up and blinked several times.  “Offputting in what way?”

“Mr. Morne is … quite large in person, tall and broad, lacking in masculine grace.  And his face is … to be honest, he is quite homely, with freckles and unfortunate teeth.  But he is very kind and gentlemanly in his nature.  It is such a pity that he has not yet met an employer willing to look beyond the surface to see all the fine qualities he would bring to any position.”

“Has he experience, references?”  Lord Varys asked.

“Yes, he has both.  His references are quite glowing.  My grandmother was successful just his morning in persuading the Kingsguard Agency to accept him on their register.  I hope that will lead to a good situation for the young man.”

“He is with Kingsguard, is he?”  Tyrion asked.  “I had intended to consult with them first about someone to fulfill the position of my secretary.  Perhaps I shall ask to meet your young Mr. … Morne, was it?”

“Yes, it is, Lord Tyrion.  If you meet with Duncan, I do not believe you will be disappointed.  You will find him as worthy of regard as I do.”  Miss Tyrell declared, confidence welling in her tone.

“We shall see, Miss Tyrell.  We shall see.

***

Jaime and Tyrion shared a carriage back to Tyrion’s digs at the end of the night.

“Miss Tyrell?”  A question in Jaime’s voice.

“Yes.  She is lovely, isn’t she?”  Tyrion answered, his voice rich with approbation.

“But the wrong kind of Tyrell, I’m afraid.  Father won’t be happy that you are spending time on the theatrical black spot on the Highgarden rose bush.”

“Pleasing Father is not my aim in my acquaintances with women.”

“Still, didn’t she spend time on the stage ... in Dorne was it?  Or Essos?  Any hint of scandal will bring the Duke’s golden hammer down on our heads, just as our quarterlies are due.”

“A connection to the theater is hardly the disgrace it once was.  Why the Duke of Winterfell’s older girl is in the opera chorus, and Ned Stark is one of the most hidebound, rigid men in the country.”

“I’d think twice before using Winterfell’s conduct as an argument with Father.  Unless you want to induce an apoplexy.”

“Well, that’s a thought,” Tyrion replied.

“Just be cautious, brother,” Jaime said seriously.  “The younger son of a Duke would be quite a catch for a girl in Miss Tyrell’s situation.”

Tyrion looked up at Jaime with injury in his eyes.  “And she couldn’t possibly find me charming and wish to spend time with me?”

“You know that was not what I meant.  Any woman would be lucky to win your regard.  But Miss Tyrell is an actress, Tyrion.  She may lead you down paths you are not ready to tread.”

Tyrion broke away from Jaime’s gaze.  They were both quiet the rest of the way home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title for chapter one was taken from Georgette Heyer’s classic Georgian romance These Old Shades.


End file.
